


Five petaled flower.

by AiriEgbert



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Jaskier is a pest, M/M, Slice of Life, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:41:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22356592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiriEgbert/pseuds/AiriEgbert
Summary: Crocus aren't all that toxic, but maybe daisies would have been better.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Five petaled flower.

“ Geralt? Geralt! I’ve gotten some - !! ”

Jaskier has spent the last hour or so of the evening hunting them down mead, something locally brewed, easy on the palette, and hopefully something that wasn’t too weak for his dear Witcher friend. A task of which he does successfully! A mead brewed with the local honey, smelling sweet and heavy with alcohol, something he had hoped Geralt would enjoy. But instead of coming to find the large man either sharpening his steal or playing a round of Gwent, instead when Jaskier rounds the corner he finds him sitting on the floor. 

“ Geralt? ” Jaskier comes around the door of their room, a large enough room at the inn, considering the size of the relatively small settlement, and when Geralt doesn’t stir from the floor he almost worries. He’s not sleeping, he’s not conscious either. 

Meditating! 

Stepping even lighter then he had before, the bard wandering in the room to affirm his findings, finding that his bright eyes were indeed shut and his breathing remains steady and slow, hands balled into fists in his lap while he simply exists. Oh what a treat. 

Jaskier’s hand waves over the man’s face when he’s close enough, even snapping once to test how truly far gone he was. And when no response comes, a grin creeps on to his face. 

He’s light on his feet as he sprints out of the room and through the doors of the inn, heading outside, and looking, intently. Jaskier, sure enough, finds what he is looking for. Nearest a sign most in the ground is a small group of wild flowers, soft cornflower blue with five or six soft petals, all long stemmed and perfect for what he plans to do. The grin only gets larger when he harvests the group of flowers, sparing not a single one for his daring prank on Geralt. 

Dashing back in, Jaskier ignores the strange look he gets from the women behind the bar, heading straight back for the shared room with that bright look on his face. And the moment the door is shut, Jaskier is quiet as a mouse, unlike his usual nature, and crossing the room once more. 

Double checking his findings, Geralt hasn’t stirred an inch, perfect. 

The bard climbs carefully onto the bed behind the Witcher, his fist full of flowers laid into the furs while he crosses his legs and reaches out, so carefully, like if moving one wrong thing might end his life. It very well may, pending out Geralt reacts to this little joke. But carefully his fingers reach out and pull at the man’s fine white hair back, and sets to work. 

It takes time, Jaskier occasionally afraid he might disturb Geralt, but as he works, weaving the flowers into his hair, he doesn’t move a single inch. It hardly takes ten minutes, but it’s ten minutes Jaskier spends holding his breath and anxiously aware that Geralt may stir at a moment’s notice. 

But the ten minutes do pass, and he gets to be impressed by his handy work.

The Witcher sits in the ground, his hair pulled into a finally made braid from hair pulled from both sides of his head, not unlike how he would normally wear it, though in it are the blue flowers, carefully placed and spaced apart for the best look. 

Now, with his prank executed, Jaskier admires the work while he settles in for the night. Geralt has not moved, or even breathed a heavy breath, which the bard will take a sign he is down for the night. And when he tucks in, the fire burning low, the mead is forgotten till tomorrow. 

\-----------------------------

“ Sir Witcher, I beg pardon. . . ” A village woman has come up beside the duo of men as they set to leave the village early the next morning. 

Geralt pauses, hand still on Roach’s belly strap, ready to tighten it. Jaskier is sat nearby, leaned back on a table while he waits patiently for his friend to finish readying, though he does peer up in interest as the woman comes by.

“ Yes? ” Geralt’s voice is still a rumble in his chest when he speaks, finishing the process of saddling his dear horse before she gets his full attention. 

“ Careful, ma’am, ‘fraid he’s a right cranky one early in the morning, ” Jaskier jeers playfully from his spot, a grin on his face when he pushes himself to sit up. 

“ S’lright! Wanted to make sure you knew them flowers in your hair, they’re crocus’, ” the women gives a gesture to Geralt’s hair, a pleasant smile on her face as she does, “ pretty to look at but they gives the youngin’ a right ‘n bad belly, I suggest y’don’t go puttin’ them in your hair. Only good for lookin’ at I thinks. ”

Geralt has a look of confusion on his face, his hand raising to his hair like he isn’t aware, mostly because he isn’t. When instead of finding his hair tied back like it normally is, he finds the braids, and with a little pull, dislodges a flower. Even more confused, he looks at it in his palm, going down the line of reasons why there would be flowers braided into his hair. His eyes land on Jaskier, who still has that smitten look on his face. 

“ Don’t give me that look! Brown leather armour, so dreary, I though some colour would do you some good! ”

**Author's Note:**

> I had ADHD and hyper fixated long enough to two pages of slice of life. and Jaskier being an utter pest. I think I saw a prompt about this somewhere, if you find it, let me know!


End file.
